Oh hey look I wrote a thing

Year 1

We walk down monochromatic hallways, our palms quivering with fear as we might capsize and our bodies will become engulfed in the embers of used geometry textbooks and wooden pencils, gnawed nearly down to their graphite centers.

I find you, caught in the crossfire of raging hormones and drooping pants. While it’s cliche as hell, I can’t forget the time our eyes first locked. 

We were a dynamic duo, our lives intertwined in the blink of an eye, and before I knew it, it was practically you and me against the world.

Year 2

This is the year of heartbreak and smeared eyeliner, the type of thing that gets featured in cheesy teen drama movies.

I found the human equivalent of a ticking time bomb, disguised as a girl with short choppy green hair. We were on a collision course from day one, and when we finally crashed, you helped to clean up the debris.

I remember the break down at 12:07 am on Wednesday April 23rd via facebook chat. I still have a screenshot of this conversation for future reference, for some reason I can’t bring myself to delete it. That was the day you told me you loved me and you’d help the scars fade. I knew then I could get by.

Year 3

We march the hallways, hand in hand. We’ve become those best friends; the ones everyone knew to be inseparable. I don’t fight it, I embrace this teenage cliche.

The anxiety derived from knowing there’s only two years let and the clock is ticking down; it drives me insane. This town, these halls have molded me, sculpted me into a work of adolescent art, complete with ripped jeans and worn combat boots.

Although I don’t show it, I’m frightened. I’m not ready to be placed in life’s assembly line of adults trying to fulfill the American dream. 

Adults. I turn seventeen this year. The clock’s running down. You and I drive your silver 1983 Honda Civic to party after party, drowning the anxiety in plastic cups of Miller lite.

year 4

We turn in our transcripts at the last second, preparing for them to be sent nationwide. This could be my last year in this town. Despite my fear, I want to leave.

This place haunts me, god knows I’ve had enough. You and I cruise the halls our final months. We’re surrounded by teary-eyed figures. I’m surprised we haven’t drowned in the running mascara, yet. The final weeks, we prepared for painful goodbye. College, we’d be six hours apart. I remember throwing off that crimson graduation cap in late-May, just before we sat on your bed and listened to all our favorite old records.

At the end of the summer, we packed our suitcases. You gave me a mixtape and hugged me one last time. I still have that tape to this day. As for you, I haven’t seen you in months, spoken in weeks. Maybe these different paths of ours were for the best, as I hope the best for you.